


scratching post

by proval



Category: Shameless - Fandom
Genre: AU?, Abuse, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Bipolar Disorder, Blood, Cats, Drug Use, Fluff, M/M, Minor Violence, Slurs, human cat, no cat/human sex thank god, other things that I've probably misrepresented, post 5x12, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-14 22:28:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4582497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proval/pseuds/proval
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey wakes up at the Gallagher house and he's a cat? ..I'll show myself out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. claws

It smells like him. 

Like all of them actually. It smells like the Gallaghers, but obviously, it has to especially smell like Ian. Mickey kind of thinks for half a second, that because he must be back here, back at the Gallagher house, him and Ian might be back together. Or, or else, something’s happened. Something bad? They’re not back together? Ian’s here somewhere. Mickey can _smell_ him. 

Sure, he thinks, he knows Ian’s scent pretty well, but this is a little too Spiderman even for him. Mickey’s probably still dreaming. Well, he might as well let the good dream last. The disappointment on waking will be the same no matter how long it goes on, probably. 

But he is awake. He feels awake, and cold, too. He opens his eyes, and… Jesus. How much did he drink last night? Not only is he undoubtedly in the Gallagher house (in the bathroom actually), but his eyesight is—it’s not fucking normal, OK? He’ll deal with this shit later. How did he fit in such a tight spot? Right in the corner near the tub. His whole head feels light and pretty empty of solutions – it is too early for this shit. Maybe he should have stopped after the first bottle of whisky (it was only, like, two thirds full). He _knows_ Ian is somewhere near. He can still smell him and he wants to go find him, and then, he doesn’t know, have a nap? Get back to sleep? This is ridiculous, he’s not just going to go and cuddle next to Ian anymore, surely…? There needs to be some kind of resolution first, some kind of reunion, before Mickey can just forget everything that’s happened and go and curl up (what the fuck?) at the red-head’s feet. 

He _really_ wants to do that, though. 

There’s a small high pitch squeaking sound that Mickey’s completely certain couldn’t have come from him. He’s going, already. 

He stretches a little, feeling immensely satisfied while he does it. Jesus, did he need that. It seems to have a minor effect at helping to clear his hangover or whatever. And then he patters out of the bathroom… wait… When did everything get so fucking _big_? And when did he start _pattering_? And why is he walking on four legs? Hang on a moment—he has _four_ legs?!... and a fucking… a… tail?

Fuck. 

OK—this is some dream bullshit. Mickey just has to keep going, get out that door that’s ridiculously far away, down the hall, and find wherever the, wherever Ian is… then curl up there, and then wake up. That’s the way out – that’s the level-up, or whatever. Once he does that, Mickey’s slightly to probably sure that he’ll actually wake up, and be back in his flat with Yev and Svetlana. He’ll probably have to do some serious evasive behaviour to get away from self-psychoanalysing this. And he’ll probably have to do some real life shit, like go to work, or something. Oh well. That’s the penalty. 

When Mickey gets to the door though, he can hear some really loud banging. He kind of freezes, and his ears twitch upright. He can really hear it now. Christ, these people are noisy.

He slips through the door and narrowly avoids Carl coming up, huge fucking feet smacking on the stairs and dangerously close to Mickey’s head. The hell? Luckily, he didn’t seem to spot Mickey/whatever Mickey currently was. Not a sentence that Mickey thought he would think. 

He’s tired and hungover as fuck, though, so this is going to have to wait. The smell of Ian is stronger now, as he creeps like a master of stealth over to his bed and launches himself up onto the covers, flexing his claws as he lands. Mickey’s not going to pretend he didn’t enjoy that. He’s careful enough to give Ian’s leg a sniff, make sure it’s really him, before pressing his back to it, letting its sturdiness send tingles down his spine, curling his body in on itself, and and… yeah, OK. Sweet sleep.

Not so sweet as he would hope though. Mickey’s dreaming is hectic. His thoughts bringing him back to the night before. The night before when he was definitely human (maybe Mickey should take thinking things like that a little more seriously than he is doing) and he was… he was really pissed at Ian. The usual heady combination between anger and worry. Mainly anger though. 

*** 

It had been a year since Mickey last saw Ian, though only three months since they last spoke. 

Ian was… uh, drunk, definitely, probably high too, who knows what else, and it was maybe two a.m., maybe a bit earlier. Mickey wasn’t sleeping. He was on the verge of sleep. He had been on the verge of sleep for a couple of hours, mildly hoping it would come along and let him stop thinking already. Mickey just rolled over, picked up the phone and didn’t check the caller ID. That was pretty stupid of him it turned out, leaving him completely unprepared for his heart jolting straight into his throat, as soon as he heard that first unsteady “…Mick.” 

So they spoke to each other three months ago, if that could be called speaking. Listening to the almost inaudible mess that came out of Ian’s mouth and waiting, holding his breath at the pauses, just in case it wasn’t a pause and Ian was about to disappear. By the time Ian did eventually disappear, Mickey had at least found out where the boy was. He made a rather painful call to Lip and Lip told Mickey that he was on it, and Mickey could only trust that he was. 

But that was all, right. No part of him was tempted to climb up out of bed on a manhunt. Not anymore. He just stayed in bed, and he couldn’t sleep before, so it was no wonder that he couldn’t sleep after. It wasn’t that same adrenaline hit he’d got so used to, it was just… it was… 

It was always easier to stop lying to himself when Ian was around. He was kind of just an obvious farce right now, some joke he couldn’t help repeating. Hey dad, knock knock. 

Anyway, fuck, so Mickey was tallying up their communication. 

A year since he’d seen him.

Three months since he’d heard him.

Four hours since the text message. 

_I need you right now. please._

Mickey’s coat was on, and he was toying casually with the keys in his hand. His smokes were in the coat pocket. He hadn’t lit one since, uh… at least twenty minutes ago. He was even wearing his fingerless gloves. He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting on the couch, sweating, in all of these layers, or when exactly he had put them on. He could barely distinguish between that kind of hammering in his throat that demanded he get out of here immediately and the hammering that resolutely told him to stay. 

_What happened?_

_I’m fucked up._

Jesus Christ, Ian. What was new there? And also, Mickey had to congratulate him on the most ambiguous and yet terrifying response he could send. 

_sorry_

Well, actually, that one probably took the prize. That one made Mickey jolt upright and press the green call button on the screen.

Ian picked up after two rings. The line was silent though, save for some interference. 

“Ian?” Mickey started, irritated by the pitch of his own voice, gripping onto the doorjamb. 

“Yeah, hey.” Ian’s voice wasn’t exactly steady, but it was better than Mickey had been imagining, so, well, thank fuck for that. 

“Where are you? What happened?” 

“I’m at home.” 

“You’re at home?” OK. Well that was good, too, right? 

“I – er – ” 

“…Yeah?” 

“I took some things.” 

Fuck. OK. Mickey ran a hand over his face. “What d’you take?”

Mickey’s voice came out quiet, insistent, remarkably calm, almost like someone else was speaking. 

“A little liquid LSD, MDMA, cannabis, xanax, bourbon, and a fucking cigarette.” 

Mickey’s head fell back against the wall. He could hear Ian’s soft smile through the line. 

“Alright, you piece of shit.” Mickey said. “You on your own?” 

“Yeah.” 

“What you gonna do? Watch cartoons all night, you fucking loser?” Mickey grazed his bottom lip with his teeth. 

“I want to touch you.” Ian said. 

That was the second time tonight Mickey’s stomach plummeted. “Too fucking bad, huh?” His voice was oddly calm, still. “You’re going to come down off this like a thirsty cocksucker. We fucking—we talked about this, Ian.” 

“I miss you.” Ian said. Mickey could just about hear him gurn. “Come on, Mick.” 

“You were in my bed for three fucking weeks.” 

“Just come over, for like, what?” Ian’s voice picked up speed. “Couple of hours? We can pretend nothing happened in the morning.”

“Ian.”

“It’ll be fine – I’ll probably think it was a fucking dream.” 

“What every guy wants to hear.” Mickey sighed. His eyes were prickling. He knew he couldn’t go on entertaining Ian like this for any longer. But he was so weak. He wanted to carry on hearing his voice, hear him talking about how they could bang right now as if that was an actual possibility. Fuck, but he couldn’t. “I think Dexter’s Laboratory might be on if you hurry.” 

Ian laughed. It was a pretty sad laugh. Sharp. “Mick… I am – I am sorry –” 

“Whatever, man.” 

Mickey hung up. He made his way sloppily to the kitchen to light a cigarette and un-screw a bottle of Jack Daniels. It was only ten minutes later when he sent a text to _assface_ (Lip): 

_your brother is pretty high_

Then he saved Ian’s number as ‘assface mark 2’. Then he deleted assface mark 2 from his phone. Then he went through his call log and re-saved him as ‘Ian’. Ian. Fucking Ian. He lit another cigarette. His phone buzzed. _assface_. 

_high high or high like manic?_

Mickey stared at that until the screen dimmed. He flicked some ash on the floor. He ran his lip through his teeth. He took a good-sized swig of drink. He turned on the TV. Dexter’s fucking Laboratory. 

_The fuck do I know?_

*** 

The fuck does Mickey know? Except that the smell of Ian is keeping him safe, and that Ian's legs are digging into his back, and that while he’s got fur, he no longer has opposable thumbs. He knows he’s probably going to be kicked out as a stray at some point in the morning. No changes there then. 

He’s kind of gotten used to being kicked out as a stray. 

Why would Mickey want to stay here anyway? (That’s a stupid question). He feels himself dropping off for real this time and his dreams are filled with tuna, and tassels, and tall redheads petting him. 

He's going to have to wake up at some point.


	2. Tail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> further cat adventures
> 
> (thanks for the feedback on the last chapter by the way - I really appreciate it!)

Ian woke up early. Mickey was a light sleeper anyway but this morning he was flinchy as hell. All it took was for Ian to stir slightly and Mickey jolted awake. He jumped off the bed and hid under it. 

He was still a fucking cat, then. 

With the dawning of this realisation, Mickey poked his head out to check Ian sitting up, wiping his eyes, not spotting Mickey yet, thank God. And getting up was good, too. He had kind of suspected Ian wouldn’t be out of bed this morning, for whatever reason. Mickey retreated to his hiding place. So maybe, this dream was just continuing. Maybe it was a long dream with loads of other dreams inside it. _An American Werewolf in London_ kind of dream. A nightmare? Sort of. 

Out of the side of his eye, Mickey caught a glance of the swish of his (own?) tail. It was black and fluffy like the rest of him. The color he could deal with, but did there have to be fluffiness too? His legs under him were quite thick, stocky, like his human self. It was strange how much this body felt like _himself_. 

There wasn’t much time to think over how much of his mind belonged to cat Mickey and how many of his thoughts (like the probably insatiable urge for a cigarette) were human Mickey thoughts. Ian’s legs had landed over the side of the bed. Clothes were flying everywhere. Mickey stayed put, despite the yearning to chase after them and paw at them, and the slightly different desire that was just to catch a proper look at Ian. It had been a while after all. 

Mickey gave his ear a scratch with his back leg. Immensely satisfying. 

No matter which one he was more of - cat Mickey or human Mickey - he wasn’t going to let Ian see him. Thank God he still had self-preservation instincts. He was just going to stay under here and uh… chase that spider? 

No, he was going to stay as still as possible until Ian left. No matter how much he willed his tail to calm the fuck down, it kept swishing and twirling of its own accord. Like it had a mind of it’s own. That’s just what he needed – would he have to differentiate between cat Mickey, human Mickey, _and_ tail Mickey now? 

He could hear Ian breathing and the rustle of clothing. Mickey bet that Ian was pulling on a fresh tank. He wondered what that, if anything, meant about Ian’s mental health.

Why would that matter if this were a dream anyway? Maybe Mickey’d got hit by a car and he was in a coma. Or he was entering a really vivid state of psychosis. Maybe he was dead. This was the afterlife. He always thought that Terry would be the main feature of hell so if he was dead, Mickey was pretty relieved. 

_Is this all you’ve got, God? Jesus, living was scarier than this._

This felt like living though. Breathing. Needing to survive. Yearning. Yearning all the damn time for things he wasn’t allowed to have. For things that wouldn’t result in survival.

Just like life. 

The bedroom door slammed as Ian left in a hurry.

Mickey stayed quiet and hunched up under the bed for what seemed like a couple of hours. Even when the house was drained of its mad amount of noise, he was still hesitant to step forth, and get lost once more inside the Gallagher mayhem. Only this time all the Gallaghers were also at least four times his size. Except, maybe Liam? Could he still take Liam in a fight? The problem wasn’t just that he was a cat, he was beginning to suspect, but he was a fucking tiny cat. You’d think the universe would grant him a goddamn break on the being short situation in this fucked-up scenario. But no. Mickey doesn’t get breaks. He bet if they discovered what the universe looked like that’s what all the galaxies would spell out. That or “Fuck Milkoviches”. Like other people, the galaxies probably wouldn’t differentiate between them. 

Mickey started to internally yell at himself for being self-pitying as fuck before he remembered he was still a goddamn cat. He felt a little more vindicated after that. 

But he was beginning to get curious and not just a little stir crazy. It was probably Carl’s sneakers to his left that were casting that pretty horrible stench. But there was also something suspiciously soft and familiar smelling beckoning him on Mickey’s right. Underneath the bed in general, though, was grim as hell. He realised he’d been sitting on a dusty packet of condoms, three years out of date. Fucking waste. 

He crawled out tentatively, stretching as he went. Stretching was good and stretching was easy. Mickey had this urge to rub his scent onto the bedpost so he just rolled with it. Then, he wanted to jump up and sniff around on the bed itself. But Mickey wasn’t going to do that. He had some dignity, right? 

He should probably… get out of here. Go live in the scrap yard with the other scrap yard cats. Pick himself up a crew and steal fish-bones from the dogs. That kind of thing. 

He was just contemplating this when there was a clatter of falling CDs, and a “holy shit!” 

Shit. Shit. Debbie was still in the house. Debbie was in the room, surrounded by scratched-to-hell discs and CD cases, staring straight at him. 

“You scared the shit out of me!” Debbie told him. And then calming down, probably noticing how Mickey had frozen, added, “Wait, I’m sorry. Did Carl steal you?” 

Mickey opened his mouth to report _fuck that! I’ve not been fucking kidnapped by a teenager_ , but all that came out was “meow.” 

_Meow?_ Mickey’s communication skills were at an all time low. And they never were that high. 

“OK.” Debbie said. Understanding, somehow? Or pretending to understand. “You can hang here. Just don’t let him see you.”

No shit. 

“D’you want something to eat?” 

_Oh, fuck yes._. “Meow.” _Christ._ Was he going to have to get used to that?

“Alright then.” Debbie turned on her heel, abandoning the CDs (which she was probably ‘borrowing’), and headed down the stairs. Fuck it. Mickey was right at her heel. 

When they got down, Debbie tossed some leftover bacon onto a plate and put it on the floor next to the washer. Mickey found it a bit weirdly over generous. Who had bacon to waste on a cat? Weren’t the Gallaghers perpetually struggling financially? Not like he was complaining. 

He didn’t like how Debbie was peering over him as he ate though. He took one bite and then stopped to glare up at her. _Back the fuck off, Dr Dolittle._

“Woah. OK. I’ll leave you to it.” 

Debbie gave him some space. That had been surprisingly affective. 

The bacon was amazing, if difficult to swallow. It was kind of easy to get lost in the bowl, but he couldn’t really forget even for a delicious second, the vulnerability of this whole situation. After what happened, he hadn’t imagined that he could be any more vulnerable. But hey ho the universe had figured out some bizarro way to make it happen. He was so small. 

He had to leave. He had to get out of there. Mickey choked on a last mouthful and made his way over to the door, which was slightly ajar, but it was getting even more ajar. 

It was open. 

Shit. 

Mickey’s heartbeat began to speed, but it wasn’t – thank fuck – it wasn’t Ian. It was only Lip. (Relief at seeing Lip was a weird concept, though).

Lip stared down at him. 

Mickey stared up at Lip. 

For a second, Mickey thought that Lip recognised him. But he couldn’t, right? It was something in the furrowing of Lip’s brow and the worrying of his lip, and how it was quickly replaced with a complacent smile, a slightly raised eyebrow, spelling a challenge. That was the way the eldest Gallagher boy usually registered Mickey’s presence. But maybe Lip felt threatened by cats too. If they were going to fight, Mickey wasn’t giving himself good odds. 

But then Lip turned away, shrugged off his denim jacket. 

“You got a cat, Debs?” 

“He just showed up.” Debbie replied. 

“Heard the Gallagher house was a good place for strays, huh?” Lip gave him that look again. 

Mickey wanted to tell him that the Gallagher house is actually a shit place for strays, and that he was personally getting the hell outta there. But obviously he couldn’t. And Lip was in the way, closing the kitchen door, grabbing a smoke out of his pocket. 

“Don’t be an asshole to the cat Lip, Jesus.” Debbie said, dismissively. “Why you here, anyway?” 

“Hey, _sorry_ , didn’t get the memo you’d got a replacement already when I set off from school this morning.” 

Jesus, the Gallaghers were annoying. Mickey zoned out their pointless bickering. Escape route number one was blocked off, but… to be honest, he had new plans. He was trying to be subtle about it, but he couldn’t help eying the cigarettes. He would fucking kill for one of those. 

Who would have thought that he’d put all that casing practice he’d done when he was a teenager into work as cigarette burglary in the Gallagher kitchen? Cat-cigarette-burglary, actually. 

Fuck, at least he had transferrable skills. 

Mickey bent his knees, readied himself for a quick jump onto an abandoned chair. Fucking A! Easy. Next onto the counter. Quick and quiet as hell. Debbie and Lip were lost to the world in their bubble of bitching about shit anyway. Mickey pawed open the packet and stuck in his head –  
“Is that cat trying to steal your cigarettes?” 

It was Ian. Mickey froze, not really knowing if he should withdraw his face and look at him. Of all the embarrassing weird shit Mickey had to be doing when Ian next saw him, head in a carton of smokes and his ass in the air had to top the list. But it wasn’t like Ian knew he was Mickey anyway, he was just some cat. 

Mickey took his head slowly out of the carton. 

Ian looked OK. He looked fresh, and clean. Just a bit… just a bit tired and haphazard and sad. He was always beautiful. Once you started to look at him, it was hard to stop.

“Hey,” Ian said, softly, attention suddenly entirely on Mickey “are you—”

“What the fuck!?” Lip interrupted, snatching up his smokes, “That’s not normal cat behaviour. Find a tin of tuna or something.” 

Lip’s interjection gave Mickey time to scurry down from the counter and hide underneath the table. He felt like such a fucking pussy, but—

 _Jesus!_ Mickey couldn’t believe how long it had taken him to come up with that one. Oh yeah, he felt like a fucking pussy, alright. And the universe has come to align itself at last.

Ian’s gaze had followed him down. He was still looking at Mickey, Mickey could tell, even though Mickey wasn’t looking at Ian. 

“Hey, don’t be scared,” Ian began. He was talking directly to Mickey, ignoring his brother’s muttering. “I promise I won’t hurt you.” 

Mickey sincerely doubted that. 

Ian sighed. It wasn’t going to work. Mickey was going to stay under the table forever. First the bed, now the table. Hiding under shit was his feline forte.

“Shit.” Ian said. 

“I guess he doesn’t want to play now, huh? Now there’s no carcinogens in it for him.” Lip joked, sounding a little forced, a hint of worry coming through in his voice. “You OK, man?” 

“Yeah, I uh—I guess I’ll go back to bed.” Ian said, turning back to the stairs. 

The tension was palpable in his wake, with Lip and Debbie sharing a long look. Mickey stayed put, staying still (except for his heartbeat and his goddamn tail) under the table, feeling their attention shift again to him, feeling that sticky sense of blame he kept trying to get away from. 

Lip leaned down to glare at Mickey. 

“Can’t you see that he’s sad?” He demanded of the cat. “Can you not just try to understand a little bit?” 

Then Lip’s jacket was back on and he was back out of the door. Who knew why he was even here in the first place. 

Debbie crouched down to look at Mickey, too. Oh good, hopefully all the Gallaghers would be able to get their digs in before the day was out. 

“Lip’s just talking to himself.” She said, her eyes big and glassy. “My brothers can’t really deal with their emotions.” 

Mickey had a feeling she was talking to herself, too. 

It was weird how this feline body seemed to inspire confidence. Even, just, how open Ian had sounded when he’d spoken to him. _I promise I won’t hurt you._ Would Ian have ever said that to the old Mickey? Seemed unlikely… even when… even _if_ that was how he’d really felt. They never really talked. They tried, but… Ian found it too hard to tell him things or some shit. He didn’t even tell him when it was all going to hell. He didn’t tell Mickey that he was getting sick. 

Was Ian too scared? Like Mickey was before Ian left for the army? Scared of admitting it, sure. Scared of how Mickey might react, maybe? 

Like when they were working at the Kash and Grab together and Mickey could just _tell_ that Ian wanted to say something else, something more. And back then Mickey was kind of relieved as fuck that he didn’t because he wouldn’t have been able to handle it. But now, well not now anymore, but recently, before they’d broken up or whatever, Mickey had tried so fucking hard to show Ian that he _could_ handle it. That he could take it, now. 

But it hadn’t worked. Obviously. 

Now Mickey couldn’t shake this thought. Would Ian open up to him if he didn’t know it was him? Like Debbie and Lip kind of did. 

But it was pretty pathetic. In fact, it sounded a little bit like self-torture. Padding back up the stairs and looking at Ian. Ian looking at him. The thing that was especially pathetic was that Mickey kind of longed to be under that gaze. When Ian didn’t know it was Mickey, he’d looked at him like he wasn’t some piece of shit under his shoe. 

Mickey made his quiet way up the stairs. This was possibly a dream, anyway. Best to get the most of it. 

He slid back into Ian’s room, but waited near the door. The boy was in bed. Mickey could tell Ian knew that he’d come in. 

Ian’s eyes slowly dropped from the ceiling, to the bunk bed to the wardrobe, to Mickey. His pink mouth dropped open. 

“Hey.” Ian breathed, his gaze steady. “I thought you hated me.” 

Mickey just kept looking at him. 

“I’m sorry about Lip.” Ian told him. 

Mickey sort of attempted a shrug. 

“Yeah,” Ian shrugged back. Who cares, right? They were a long way apart and Mickey wasn’t going to go over to him, but there was this warmth in the room. Even if they were in a dream, and Ian was on the bed, and Mickey wasn’t even human, they were together again. Kind of. 

To be honest Mickey was finding the dream hypothesis more and more difficult to believe. It was just… it was so _real_. Everything was so vivid and precise. And it wasn’t like Mickey had studied cat behaviour previously. And it wasn’t like Ian had been around recently, to make him remember exactly what _this_ was like.

What if it was some weird voodoo shit? 

If his dad knew he’d turned into a cat he’d probably drown him in the canal. But yeah OK, Mickey could admit to himself that it was unlikely that Terry would find out that he was a cat. That was one good fucking thing about this world, he found himself thinking again, no need to be as constantly terrified of his dad as he usually was. 

That, and the fact that Ian could look at him again without distrust and hatred in his eyes. 

Maybe if he were lucky he’d stay feline forever.


	3. teeth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> really sorry for taking so long to update this (if anyone is even still around?)  
> I kind of got stressed out about misrepresenting things, idk anyway - It's back, for better or for worse  
> thanks loads for the feedback btw though <3  
> yeah, so I think there'll probably be like one more chapter after this one. also, blood tw. (actually, check tags - going to update)

“I uh...” Ian started, talking to his pillow. They had been up here for about half an hour. First both looking at each other, and then Ian had closed his eyes like he was sleeping. And now it was just Mickey looking at Ian. “I uh was...” Ian began again. 

Mickey had settled down onto his front, his legs tucked underneath him, kind of tempted to draw them out and rest his chin on them. It had taken him a while to decide to try and relax like that, not to stay on his hind legs in a manner that meant he could easily get away. He wanted to stretch out more, way more, but he wasn’t... he would wait a bit first... he might want to go at any moment still, anyway, so. 

His ears twitched when Ian spoke. He shuffled a bit. He licked his top lip, quickly. _Don’t look away from me._

Ian was back to looking at him now, slow and curious. Mickey still needed a cigarette, but getting one continued to seem pretty unlikely, and smoking one would require a level of physical skill that he probably didn’t have. Maybe they should recommend turning into a cat in the stop smoking campaigns. Infuriatingly effective. Ian’s eyes were gentle, now. Looking back at them was hard as fuck, but it’s not like Mickey had any choice. He wanted about twelve beers and half a bottle of whisky, too. That might help. 

“I uh...” Ian tried again, for the third time. Just fucking say whatever it is. Jesus. “I uh, I wanted to go for a run this morning.” 

_Yeah... and?_ Mickey rolled his eyes. Mickey was in no way about to recommend animal transformation as a way to communicate with your ex-boyfriend. But still, he wanted to know. _Why couldn’t you go for your run, Ian?_

Ian breathed heavily. He turned to face the ceiling, an arm lolling off the side of the bed. “I had to stop, like after three blocks. Fuck, I’m so... I’m so... fuck...” 

Mickey unfolded himself. He wanted to go over to the bed, but he didn’t. He just kind of ducked slightly, refolded himself up again. This was working? Sort of. Ian was telling him shit, but how much did Mickey wanted to hear it? It was the kind of stuff that makes the hammering in his head get louder and it was spoken in the low shaky kind of tone that Mickey couldn’t even interrupt. He supposed he could meow, or cough up a fur-ball, or hack up or something as a decoy. 

“I think I... last night, I think I rang Mickey.” 

Mickey froze. 

Ian flopped back to look at him again, mouth slightly open, suddenly turning into a grin, then a splutter, then a choking sad laugh, as he rolled back round, smiling incredulously at the ceiling. 

Fuck. Mickey felt his heart drop. 

“Mick.”

_Fuck._

Ian didn’t... Ian didn’t know that Mickey was here, right? Everything was quiet for a moment, the covers no longer rustling. Ian looked at him again, eyes damp. 

“The fuck do I know though, right?” 

This was weird. This was weird as shit that Mickey was here right now, watching and invading Ian’s privacy like some kind of fucking teenage vampire weirdo. Mickey swallowed. He should leave. He should get up and get right out of there. It just... it felt like... had Ian been talking to him when he said “Mick”? 

Well, yeah. Ian had been talking about him, about human him, who was possibly still alive and living it up in the world (hungover and anxious) while tiny clone cat him sat here in this purgatory listening to Ian regret shit everywhere, listening to Ian being shaky and slow. 

“I’m glad you're here.” 

Well, what the fuck? If human Mickey were still alive he’d probably be pissed that Ian seemed to like cat Mickey so much. What the hell had cat Mickey done? Honestly, what the fuck had cat Mickey done to deserve that? 

Mickey had to chill out with the fracturing identity shit. As far as he was concerned, he was Mickey, he was a cat, and fuck, the most unbelievable of all, Ian was glad that he was here. 

He realised that he was sat up on his haunches, staring unblinking at Ian so hard that it was Ian who had to look away, who choked, turning over again, hiding his face with one arm. Too secret even now. Ian’s other arm once more lolled over the side of the bed and his chest rose and fell visibly. 

Mickey was glad that Ian was here, too. 

Not glad that he wasn’t okay, but... glad that Ian came back, came back home if this was home, and wasn’t like, wasn’t just... on his own, somewhere. Mickey wished that he could say something, but at the same time, didn’t have a clue what he would say. So it was probably for the best that he couldn’t deal with words right now. 

He felt his tail twitch again, and his legs shook underneath him as Mickey stood up on them. He really didn’t want to be this pussy (literally) who just went crawling (also literally) back to the person who’d... the person who... 

God, but Mickey was, wasn’t he? He craned his neck up to Ian’s dry knuckles hovering off the bed. The wet tip of his nose just barely met Ian’s skin, sending a ripple down Mickey’s neck and wave of nausea into his throat. Actually, _fuck this._

Mickey bit hard into Ian’s fingers. 

“Ow! Shit!” 

Mickey bit them again, harder, sinking his fucking excellent new canines into the flesh so they goddamn stuck. 

“Get off me, you little furry shithead!” Ian was shaking his arm now, trying (yeah, _keep trying, bitch_ ) to dislodge the cat from tearing up his hand. “What the fuck, man?!” 

Mickey eased up as he realised he’d drawn blood. At least he’d woken Ian up? Ian hastily snatched back his arm and cradled it away from Mickey’s teeth. But when Mickey jumped up on the bed to check on it, Ian was smiling. It wasn’t like a full-on -Ian-did-you-eat-a-constellation-of-stars?- smile. It was only a little confused smile. But it was a smile none-the-fucking-less, thank you. 

“What, coming back for more?” Ian asked, jerking his arm away from Mickey’s face. “You are some messed up version of a cat.”

Mickey noticed that he had two of his paws on Ian’s thigh. He still wanted to check Ian’s hand but... he hadn’t realised he’d got so close. He tried to duck away and scamper over Ian all in one go. But the confused movement meant that Mickey wasn’t at all prepared for Ian’s other hand to land his head, firmly stroking the fur there behind his ears. Uh... OK. Well. _No._ Mickey ducked under the hand, his body freezing momentarily before he jumped down from the bed. 

Shit, that had felt kind of... nice, though. 

Up on the bed, Ian was frozen too, one hand hovering in mid-air, the other against his chest, a couple strands of wet red hair stuck to his forehead and a guilty-looking set to his eyes as they watched Mickey on the floor. Fucking right, too. 

Mickey licked his top lip again. _Come on, Ian, show me your hand._

And Ian did? 

Ian extended his arm. The line of blood was thin but stark against his pale skin, dripping a little onto the crease of Ian’s elbow, and there were a set of dark teeth marks in an uneven row along his knuckles. Ian wiggled his fingers. 

“Still functional, see.” He tightened them into a fist, and extended them out again. “You can’t do too much damage, fur ball.” 

Mickey let go of a breath and his shoulder muscles relaxed. 'Fur ball', though? Not even a little bit funny. 

“I don’t know why I—” Ian’s eyes widened, and he let out this tiny bemused chuckle. “I feel like... I don’t know, like... no I mean... no? Right?” 

_... Right?_ Well that made approximately zero sense. Great. 

Mickey grazed his lip with his teeth and cocked his head. _Come on, man, what are you trying to say?_ He waved a paw in frustration. At this speedy rate, maybe Ian would admit to being a little thirsty after a couple billion light years.

Ian with eyes still wide, his mouth slightly open, was slowly shaking his head. “Are you? I mean...?”

 _What?_

Ian covered his reddening face with his hands and keeled over on the bed. Then he pushed himself back up, looked at Mickey through his fingers, and keeled over again. 

Mickey was getting dizzy just watching him. He sniffed and looked away, trying to slow his spinning head. 

But it was really, really spinning. Things had escalated pretty quickly. Too much had happened. He hadn’t realised it was happening and... when he was a human and this kind of rush hit him, he needed to stay still, to grip hold of something, to root himself, to stop thinking and to breathe. 

Would the same routine work now? It might not. Why would it? It might. Shit. He dug his claws into the carpet. He lowered his jaw. He shut his eyes. He didn’t, and couldn’t, look at Ian. 

_Breathe, Mickey. It’s OK. Breathe._

“Mickey, breathe.” 

Breathe, Mickey. It’s OK. Breathe. 

He gripped the carpet, tighter. He was on the floor. It was OK. Mickey slowly eased up his hold on it, carefully withdrawing each claw and unclenching each knuckle. Do cats have knuckles? He wondered how many as he relaxed his paws completely. His haunches were still tight and his back curved and stiff and everything still felt foggy in that vague indescribable way that fogginess hits. 

He let himself open his eyes. He stared at the floor. Don’t look up. _Don’t look at me._

“Are you... are you OK?” 

Mickey’s legs hardly shook as he raised himself up, and walked, quick but steady out of the bedroom door.


	4. paws

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mickey's still a cat, what. no purr jokes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. sorry this took so long. (what else can I say).  
> 2\. thanks for the feedback - it's great.  
> 3\. still don't really know how long this is gonna be... uh...  
> 4\. thanks for checking out this weird story

Mickey was hanging out under the table in the kitchen. He really liked it there. It was a good spot for hiding, avoiding legs and pouncing on things without any fucking Gallaghers getting in the way.

Also, if Debbie came in, there was a 60% chance of food. If Liam came in, he without fail gave Mickey whatever the fuck he had in his hands, which was usually gnarled plastic action heroes that looked like they'd been microwaved, but one-time Mickey had gotten half a hot dog. That had been sweet, and the fact that Lip and Fiona hadn't been impressed only added icing to the cake. If Carl came in, it was easy to slink into the shadows where Mickey couldn't be seen. But to be honest, cat Mickey had gotten over his fear of Carl. He'd looked at Carl with a pretty solid "yeah, try it, bitch" expression the day before and it seemed to have worked, even if Captain America over there hadn't been so lucky. 

Ian had come in earlier that morning wearing stupidly, in fact, _offensively_ tight shorts, slowly chugging out of a bottle of water just to probably fucking deliberately show off the taut stretch of skin down his neck leading to his chest. 

Nobody needs to tense their pectoral muscles while they hydrate themselves. It's just not necessary. 

Was Ian on his way to try another run, maybe? Maybe it'd work out this time, who knew? Out of bed for good now? Been getting out of bed pretty consistently for a while now, so did that mean he was feeling a bit better? Jesus. Who was asking anyway? There was never a time when Mickey regretted the complete overhaul of his vocal chords less. 

Mickey had definitely hidden when Ian was around. Apparently cat Mickey hadn't quite gotten over his fear of Ian. 

Ian had left him a bowl of tuna. 

Otherwise, cat Mickey was becoming a damn Gallagher house pet. 

Both Ian and himself were doing a good job at ignoring the fact that Ian had called him 'Mickey', as though Ian could somehow recognise Mickey in this form. Was that was just a thing that Ian was going to pretend hadn't happened? To be fair, if Mickey was Ian in that situation he'd probably think he was going out of his fucking mind ( _fuck_ , thoughtless wording). Mickey didn't know what it was that he'd managed to do which had conveyed his ... Mickey-ness. His Mickey essence? Maybe it was the old constant problem that the Milkovich dirt can never rub off. No matter how many time Mickey licks his paw and uses it to rub at his face, he's still Southside trash. 

Why did Mickey keep doing that? That rubby face thing? He was worried it was becoming like a pathological cleaning ritual. Scrubbing away at cat Mickey until the Mickey part had completely disappeared and there was only cat left. Some dumb lonely Gallagher cat. Hanging out under the table with footless Captain America and the mangled green arm of the Hulk. Thanks, Liam. 

Mickey _did_ kind of appreciate the attention that Liam gave him, though. If a cat had started moping around the Milkovich house when Mickey was Liam's age he'd probably have dragged it around by the tail or barbecued it or something. 

That wasn't strictly true. He and Iggy had once shooed a kitten away from the wrath of Terry. After, Iggy had looked at Mickey with these baleful big eyes that absolutely clearly said 'This never happened'. Mickey was pretty sure his own eyes had said the same thing. Probably with a 'fucking' added somewhere in there. 

Mickey rested his legs in front of him and tucked his head down on top of them. He felt calm in this position. The other option was that Ian had (for some twisted reason) decided to name the cat 'Mickey'. Some kind of humiliation thing? Some kind of replacement thing? And it just had to be Mickey's luck that he actually _was_ Mickey. 

Mickey had never done so much fucking soul searching in his life and it was exhausting as hell. His head wouldn't stop _thinking_. 

The main thing going on in his head, though, was that he wished they could rewind just a little bit. Not even to pre-cat existence, just back to when Mickey could crawl into Ian's room and kind of creepily watch him, make sure he was OK and things, and Ian would just be there maybe occasionally looking back at him, and... things felt more normal, more right. As normal as things could get right now.

"Hey, Mick." 

_What._

Ian's softly freckled face (he must've got some sun today, Mickey thought, distractedly) was leaning down, and peering at him. His wide green eyes were soft, his mouth was slightly open. He'd said 'Mick'. Again? 

Mickey launched to his paws, hair starting to stand up on end. Mickey couldn't get a grip on the emotions that came from hearing the old nickname never mind the fact that Ian had no way of knowing that he _was_ Mick. 

"What the fuck, Ian?" Lip. Lip was in today, too? "Did you just call the cat 'Mick'?" 

"The cat fucking _is_ Mickey." That was Carl. When did Carl get here as well? They must have all come in together. And, uh, what. Again. What x 100. 

"I guess it is small and kind of scraggly." Lip, again. Fuck Lip, though. 

Mickey was out from under the table now, looking up at all three of them, warily. 

"No. It just fucking is Mickey." Carl reiterated. "It just _is_ Mickey." 

Lip looked between Carl and Ian, as though trying to decide which one was the sanest, so that he could side with that one. He landed on Carl. (Wrong choice, asshole). 

"Hey, Carl, don't, you know, encourage him with this -" 

"Don't encourage what, Lip?" Ian demanded. _What the fuck, Lip?_

"See!" Carl said, pointing down at Mickey rapidly. "See - he's gone all psycho gotta defend my boyfriend mode. It's fucking Mickey!" 

Ex-fucking-boyfriend, but whatever. 

"It's a goddamn cat, Carl!" said Lip, raising his voice, too. 

"Why's he always trying to steal your cigarettes, then, douchebag?" 

"Yeah, a cat puts its head in a box of cigarettes one time, _ipso facto_ it's a human stuck inside the body of an animal!" 

"Try like forty times, dickwad." 

"This isn't the fucking Animorphs!" 

"Meow!" Shit. 

The yelling stopped, and they stared down at Mickey. 

Ian crouched down to his level, green eyes soft again. "Hey, Mick. It's gonna be alright. I just talked with Mandy, she said you - human you - has been missing for a week." 

Ian glanced back up at Lip. "Yeah, I wasn't sure either. I mean I know it sounds fucking crazy, but... a week ago's when the cat appeared. Sorry - " His green eyes hit Mickey's again. "When Mickey appeared." 

Mickey couldn't stop shaking. 

"Hey, it's OK -" Ian said again, reaching out towards him. Mickey flinched away and Ian's eyes went hard again. Ian swallowed "We're gonna... we'll figure it out. We'll work it out." 

Lip was pacing somewhere in the background, chatting disbelieving shit. Mickey had stopped listening, his mind was full of white noise, and suspicion, and fear, that this isn't real. This isn't happening. He couldn't believe... how... how did Ian know it was him? How was he putting so much trust into this...? How? 

"Mickey!" Ian again, looking embarrassed. "Mickey, hey. Can you do that for us?" 

Shit. Do what. 

Ian sighed. "Lip wants proof that it's you. Can you like, do something?" 

_Jesus_. OK, Ian. Be a touch more specific, maybe? 

"He looks like Mickey does when he's pissed." Carl pointed out. 

Yeah, OK.

Ian rolled his eyes, which made Mickey want to smile. "Whatever, fine." Ian said, getting up and scrambling on the kitchen table for a pen and paper that Liam had been scratching away at. Turning the picture (that looked to Mickey like two pigeons eating each others' heads) upside-down, and placing it on the floor, Ian leant towards him with the pen, reaching out. 

Mickey pulled his paw away, back towards himself. 

Lip scoffed, from behind them. "See, Ian. Now we know that the cat's not planning on writing you a love sonnet or anything can we just --" 

"Mickey." Ian said. Green eyes flashing towards him, suddenly wet. "I get you don't like me right now. I get it. It makes sense, and I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry. You don't have to like me. But... please. If I can prove that this is you, then... I don't know." Ian swallowed. "Maybe we can help you." 

Lip started again, voice a little bit more gentle this time, from behind them, "Ian, I know you're worried about Mickey but he's probably out scoring or something -" He stopped at Ian's (and Mickey's) hiss. "Sorry, I didn't mean - I'm just saying he's only been away for a week, and, it's Mickey! I know it hurts, but like, maybe the reason Mandy told you that he wasn't around is because he doesn't want to talk to you." 

Ian was still. It was quiet. His eyes came back to look at Mickey, and this time there was something like doubt in them. He wiped a hand over his mouth. Ian looked down at the pen and the paper and Mickey waited for it to click. The impossibility of what Ian was suggesting. 

Ian's eyes caught his own once more. His lips unstuck themselves, and he took in a breath of air, tightening his hold on the pen, offering it out once more. "Mick."

Mickey didn't know if this was going to work at all, but, he moved forwards, reaching out a paw, trying to lodge the pen between two of his toes. The room was still. It was uncomfortable, but the pen held. 

It didn't feel like he was in the Gallagher kitchen. It felt like some whole other world, where it was just him, and Ian, watching, and nowhere near enough time to process what Ian had just said to him.

Mickey wanted to be helped. He didn't know what they could do. But he, honestly, really wanted to be human again. That want came upon him raw and quick, as certain as Lip's asshole scepticism, as steady as the fact that Mandy was waiting at home, worried about him, and as pure as the sound of Ian's voice saying "Mick". Mickey didn't know what he wanted after that, but he knew needed, he had to be human again. 

Mickey pressed his paw which had the pen in it down into the paper and moved backwards so that it created a long shaky line. The pen slipped slightly, teetering out from between his toes. He caught it with his nose. He unclenched his toes and it almost fell again. Ian reached out a hand to steady it. Somehow, with Ian's hand, Mickey managed to move it along the paper without the nib dragging along it. He let the nib fall again, moving in a circular motion this time, having to suddenly grip at the shaft of the pen with his teeth. He tried moving the pen off the paper again, keeping his teeth and head at an uncomfortable angle, his paw aching, finding the next spot. Mickey pressed down once more. This was probably going to be nonsense. Even harder to interpret than the gory pigeon-like creatures on the other side. He moved up and then back down, cat body contorted like no cat body should be. OK. Well. It would have to do. Mickey dislodged his mouth and the pen fell flat. He looked down at his work, hesitant. There it was - well, it wasn't very neat, but - there it was, incriminating in so many ways, plain enough for the cat and the three men in the room, written, shakily: 

_Ian_

Mickey took his eyes away from his creation to examine its subject. He was staring at the paper, his body motionless, and when his green eyes finally sought out Mickey's, they were wet again, making a sharp contrast with his pale skin.

"Well, fuck me." breathed Lip.

Ian didn't look away from him. "Mick," he said. "Mick. We're going to fix this. I promise."


End file.
